When it Comes to You
by Bardic Jester
Summary: Short Vignettes about those short moments we share. Except, we never really share them. We're always trapped in our own minds, remembering the past, and dreaming about how it could have been. TaixSora
1. Dwindling

**Part 1**

_-I wish you wouldn't do that thing_

_-What thing?_

_-You know, don't pretend you don't know_

But I don't, please I don't

**Part 2**

Tai Kamiya leaned his left elbow against the wall. A lit cigarette hung between his lips. The sun barred down on his his face. His eyes squinted in the glare. No matter where he positioned himself, he could not escape the glare. The dusty smell of the cigarette mixed with the muggy odour of his greasy hair. It tasted foul. Everything always tasted foul.

Did things have to turn out the way they did? Had he acted another way, could he have changed it all? Was it destined to turn out? Did it have to happen now?

The questions were pointless. He was here. A lit cigarette hung between his lips. There was no chance of changing his position at this time now. Here, he could only be here. There was no other way of being. If he desired to return and to shift the tide he'd been swept into, it was too late. He'd never have the chance. He'd only had the chance once.

She'd been here only moments before. She was gone now, but she had been here at some time. He'd be gone eventually as well. Could not stay in the same place forever, he knew that. Perhaps she would return here and the two of them would be able to move together. But it wouldn't happen. Not now after she had already left. Why come back to a place only to leave it once more?

His weight shifted, slightly. A lit cigarette hung between his lips. Tai Kamiya, that was him. The grey apparitions in the smoke were dancing before his eyes. Such wonderful legs the apparitions had. Red ribbon twirled in streaks around their movements. The red reminded him of the veins hiding in his face. They too wished to dance and to oxidise. To be red was to be beautiful; to be red was to be as her.

He stayed here. It was their place. She had left, but it was still both their place. When she had left it, she had left their place. He could not follow her, for here was the place for the both of them. Wherever she was, there was no place for him. He felt awfully lonely here. He hated it so. He hated himself so.

The apparitions in the smoke slowly dissipated. A lit cigarette hung between his lips. The sharp glare of the sun cut through the grey. As his smoke disapeared, it felt as if a part of him was travelling on.

Soon too, he would travel on. He would leave this place.

The cigarette fell from its resting place. His lips cried. He ached to reach her lips. The lips were so far. Why had he fucked up? How could he have done those things? He knew it was shitty. Now there was no where to move.

The only option was to move from here.

Maybe he should get out of the sun. Without a cigarette the smell was dwindling away. It hurt to stay.

So, resolved, but forever in dismay, he walked away. He moved away from their place. And he would never be able to come back.

**Part 3**

-_It's just the present to show up like this._

_-Do you wish it was different? Do you want to keep living in the past?_

_-I don't know. Maybe? Maybe I do._

But I don't, please I don't

...

**Author's Note:**

A short little story I felt like writing on a whim. I hope you liked it.


	2. Illusions of Space

_Author's Notes: I felt like writing another short chapter. Hope you like it!_

The sky felt ever distant away. She stared into the sun. It was a star. There were thousands of miles she was seeing across; the light had traveled farther than she would ever go. Here, the proximity was an illusion. Seemedd as if she could reach across from her hands and grasp it. A star, the scale of which was beyond her own imagination, felt familiar. It had been a part of her life. Since she was a child, it had hung over her short hair. Her life depended on the star; it gave her the gift to be her. To be her was all she had, really, and she was hardly grateful.

It would be constant; it had been constant; those things had not been constant; how she wished for more consistency.

When she had been little, people had always commented on her shine. Like the sun she is, the people would say. Her hair glows so lovely in the light, the others had repeated. Such beautiful hair! My was it not a gift she'd been given? The words came less as the time passed by. They did not say this at all anymore. She'd cut it off. Dyed her scalp. It was hardly constant.

If the sun were to go, she would not be able to survive.

If she had jumped out of that window, just how she had fantasised when she was 14 -and most irrational then- , then the sun would no longer be relevant.

Did the sun have to stay? She would hardly care.

Did he have to stay, once she was gone? She did care, but there was no reason for why. Her stomach contracted. Perhaps she was still irrational now.

How hard this all was!

They'd held hands by the fountain. It'd been innocent at first, but she was never sure.

She had a theory about him. Inferred by the little atomic moments of interactions. He had never understood what he wanted. He always talked about his love for the sports he played, but the reasons shifted. This was because he never did want to do sports. He wanted to do something well, for the pure pleasure it had given him. That was why she had to leave, for he did not want her. He wanted the pleasure. It could have been her or any other. He could overcome so much, but what was there to overcome here?

Of course this was only her theory. One can never really know others, no matter how close they are. She was trapped in her own mind, just as he was trapped in his own. It was all tragic. It was all a misunderstanding between him and the world. If only he could have seen the faults (but did he)?

He had seemed just as close to her as the sun. The proximity was overwhelming and awkward, but all an illusion. He was just as far. How she had dreamed of opening his head, and exploring those little things he thought. She wished to know what he thought of her smile; how he liked the strand of hair that fell over her forehead; why he laughed at her jokes. She wished she could love him. Sora felt wrong, if one can feel that way.

But it was all too distant. Nothing was constant, especially her. She would die eventually. He will die too. There was only one chance to get it right. Statistically their lives were a third over (and barely out of highschool!). If they could not connect now, she could see little reason to stay. For she was hardly constant. For she was hardly the sun.

And the sun was constant. Not forever, but forever with the time she had. Forever too short, forever too short, forever unfair.


	3. Dream in Colours

We talked often about our dreams. She described hers as spirals. I never had words for mine. The images would hang within my cheeks and cry silent whispers. We'd share the stumble; she never understood. I could never explain.

Her pictures were bold. I felt as if I could construct it all before me. The asphalt dripped with the intentions. Sunlight reflected the concepts back into my eyes. They were beautiful; I used to think they were beautiful.

It felt strange. I was pushed towards a cliff overlooking her whole self. It was always spinning and twisting; touching; touching; touching. Personable, but not my own person. Why would you dream that way? I could dream, but there were no words. Fucking words.

She'd be next to me, overlooking the edge. Her red hair fell at lengths. It mixed with her images, painting it a light red. Reminded me of blood. That was how I knew it was real. We were travelling along her veins. I could taste the iron. It burnt my tongue.

I never understood the birds. There calls were far from how I understood. Perhaps I understood in a too specific way. She always seemed to fit the birds in perfectly somehow, but they seemed wrong and awkward within me. Was I misunderstanding it all? _Weero! Weero! _A love call? An announcement? _I am she, Sora Takenouchi! _But I never knew; I never knew. Did they fly above those spirals? Did they hold onto her teeth when they fell out?

I could never tell her my own dreams. There were times I would try to veil them within words. I'd repeat them, over and over and over; it was planned and ready to be performed. But when we would meet, I could not find those words any more. And I would remember they were all lies to begin with, always. It would not have been a painting, but a sales pitch.

It was not that I did not try. I would ache and scream without a noise. The strokes, just as beautiful as hers, were touched and ordered. It was! It was! I dreamed, I did I swear. Please believe me! I had them, there are only hiding within my head. But I do not lie! I am not lying!

She never believed me. Some game you like to play, she'd tell me. It hurt, but it was not her fault. What reasons did she have of believing me? She could put hers into words. I understood, except for those birds. She was flying upon them over me, and I was tied down. I was tied down by words.

words

words

_Date: June 16, Cold Sweat, After Dawn and Barely Remembered...  
_

A dream in words:

There were three of us. I sat on the park bench, defined and myself. The other two were different. They were the others. Who they resembled? I'm not sure. From before she wore a tube top, purple and striped. But that was before now, and she may have changed. To my right, she sat with a jovial expression. Where the third was, I do not know. She could have been anyway, everywhere, but here she was irrelevant.

They'd shown me the town before. It was similar with its winding streets and red store fronts. The sun hung in the middle; clouds clashed with their albion reaches. There was a tranquillity in sound, I could not say what I could hear. I did hear the mood, for it came to me through my ear. It was calming. I'd been to the city before, but I'd never been to this city before. They were both old friends who I had never met before.

On the park bench, sitting. She'd breathe in a wave. Her construction fore fronted by the calm. It was all centred.

I brushed my hand by hers. There was a moment. Broken and muted; transfigured into the singular. All was crushed through the tunnel expanded by the gaze. Stillness! This here was alienated by the rest, but within the alienation contained all. It was all here!

She grasped my lower arm. I could barely feel. The damp breath extended out from my pores.

Turning; I grabbed the elbow of her other arm. The movement felt mechanical and determined. I did not see the town. I did not see the sun. I just did. It was not separate from me. I was not pushed from some exterior force. It was just that, beyond thinking, beyond seeing, beyond witnessing, I knew to do. My whole life, in every fucking situation, I have never participated. I've observed and calculated and analysed. Here, in an epiphany of self hood, I broke down my self imposed distinction between me and doing. I was my actions, and my actions were mine. It was I who grabbed her arm.

It was I!

And before reaction could be made; before I could break from myself to think and analyze, she moved forward. Towards me. We kissed. It was beyond delicate, nice, intimate, beyond any words I could try to put forward to explain it. It was. We kissed. And I was.

Then it was over. And I could think once more. I spent the rest of the night trying to replicate that moment, but I just kept thinking. Thinking about how I wished to return to that state. And crying, but crying without any tears or weeps. But on the inside, if there is such a thing as a me on the inside, I was crying.

-o-o-o-o-

_Author's Notes:_

I did not expect to make a third, but here it is! I hope you liked it. I've been enjoying making these, and I quite like the opportunity they give me to experiment with my style a little. Thank you!


	4. Communication

He stood there with such confidence in his features. His blonde hair refracted the light. In it, he glowed. It'd been weeks since the last time they had seen each other. The features on his face were jaunting; his eyes stared with a confident air.

Tai missed this. The time they had been able to share. Those weeks had been filled with such emptiness. He had dreamed, and he had choked on words muttered weeks before. Moments he felt were really moments remembered. He made no choices; only regretted those choices he could not make once more. But now he was standing before his friend. The moment was now right before him, and the nausea was slowly growing.

"How are you feeling? I haven't seen you in a while," Matt spoke with concern. His eyes focused on what Tai may add. It was a new territory for both of them. They had shared break ups, broke hearts, before. This was different though; the most tragically different.

Tai was consumed for a moment, looking for the proper way to express himself. Softly, he spoke "I've been fine, I guess. I've just, just, needed to have some time for myself. Every time I've seen you guys, I remember." It was honest, he had not been running away. Yet, that was precisely how he acted. He wanted to run further than he knew how, and wanted to break down in the process. Why had it dwindled into this type of form; why had he broken down into this type of state?

Solemnly, Matt tried to respond. "Hey man, no need to explain yourself. I understand. We've went through a lot, all of us. Of course seeing me would remind you of her. If it didn't, then I think you would need to explain yourself." This time, unlike all of the others girls, it had been a holistic endeavour. They had shared the experience. Each harm was not exclusive to the two of them; everyone around them were brought into the mix. For they were each others whole, for so long. And now the state was gone.

"Thanks man. Glad you don't hold it against me. Have you seen her at all?" It had been weeks before that they had last talked in person. He'd decided he was sick of it all. He needed to break himself from the sickness their affections had brought on him. Secretly, maybe, he had desired her to talk to him. If she was willing to bridge that gap, then it could be fixed. He phone rested: no calls, no texts; each day he checked it.

The distance between the two of them felt large. The distance between Matt and Tai, now, felt farther than he could describe. The words couldn't come to him. It was a mess, and he was a mess. The sun rested above their heads, yet Tai felt as if the day was cold and grey. Why could he not conform himself to everything?

Matt's gaze drifted, slightly, "Yeah, a few times. She's been a little more willing to hang." He spoke without will to offend. It was a dangerous territory; light steps were required.

"Shit, really?" Tai tried to hide he surprise. Although, surprise may not be the best words, perhaps disappointment. He'd listened by his phone, and only heard the unchanging form of anticipation on his front. He needed to kill these thoughts; it was the reason she had been apprehensive. There was more than him; there was more than him. "Well, I guess that doesn't surprise me. She was always the stronger one when it came to things like that.

Trying to reassure Tai, Matt continued "I wouldn't hold it against yourself. I bet she's feeling it just as much as you, or at least she's feeling it as much as is natural for her. But, you wear it at all times, she drowns herself in it to the extent it never shows."

"You think so?" It seemed a little elaborate. Less of an explanation, more of an apology. Tai tried to look past Matt. What was his intentions? How was he seeing it? Maybe he was the one hoping against a truth like that. How would he know?

Matt tried to amend a little. The words were obviously tied and without a clear expression. The ambiguity, of which Matt had always had, was unwelcome within this situation. "Well, I guess so. I can't know for sure anything, especially when it comes to how someone else is feeling. But yeah, I would say I guess so."

"It's cool, I don't know if I could even express how I'm feeling." Tai had felt himself tied within a similar knot between words and intentions. "It's weird; paradoxical; just a mess." And he was a mess. That was the best way to describe it. He needed to sort himself out, for there was no order and no rest as he was.

In an act of empathy, Matt rested his hand on Tai's shoulder. An act of assurance, or help when there was no clear place for it. It gave the illusions, and illusions were the only way Matt could give. "I bet it does," he said.

Tai felt now, as if he were once again no longer in the moment. He was watching those choices he had made before: in the orchard and in the suburbs and within his wet dreams. Although, in this instance it wasn't regret, but respect of those decisions. Not his decisions, but those of hers. She made those, and they were as real and unchangeable as his own.

"Look out for her, would you? I mean, I know it's no longer my business, but I would hate for her to have it too bad." An act of respect, not of protection. She could take care of herself. But he still wanted Matt to be for her, as Matt was for him.

Trying to avoid Tai's gaze, Matt agreed: "Yeah, okay."

"Cool, thanks man." Tai responded.

"And hey."

"Yeah?"

"Take care of yourself too man."

"I'll try, I'll try."


	5. By the Sea

Must they have met now? Her shirt was untucked; his face drawn.

Sora watched him slowly slide into that impersonable ramble where to connect is impossible, and yet their saunter causes one to depress: hoping to follow. But to understand placed her solely on the shore, watching him be pulled into the sea. Only to gaze and mourn, as he was slowly taken into the tide and towards a speck on the horizon.

"How have you been?"

"I've been okay. You?"

"Cool, I've been cool."

"That's good."

"I'm sorry" said Sora, turning her gaze away from him. She felt stern and empty, like a simple phantom cold and without a solid shape or form. Yet she needed to return to her material permanence. She needed to face him, and to talk. If she was not careful, he would discover that sour truth: that she did not care for him. She was done with this, and with him. But she couldn't do that to him, it would lead to many unpleasantries. So she turned her head, and started to respond.

Perhaps those feelings crossed her face, and it had been seen. She did not know when it had been taken from her. Hopefully, talking there, did not take it from him as well. Was there some blame to be put upon her? Had she done this to herself? Could she credit the world, and the sad atoms in her brain? Could she not give it to some power, unlike her, but through which -and most unwanted- had stolen those hopes, fears and loves.

It was hardly there at all any more.

Why did it have to fall on herself? She wanted to hold onto that way they walked together. The rhythm that had held the two of them in line. The strangest feeling in the world too, -and the most exhilarating- that eternal paradox fighting itself within her stomach. Those emotions most unique yet transcendental. Formed by those small incidents, like her stroke above her ear. Leading to their moments nearly beyond the experience; as too, the times she cried.

And so too, though she knew not why, were those moments, when it came crashing down, gone. She remembered that time, lying on her bedroom floor. Weeping silently as those small hopes she had been entertaining were exorcised from her body. It had felt as if she'd finally traced those feelings and wants that were held below her breasts and beyond her understanding, but it was torn away. For she forgot to trace his as well. In that moment, on the floor, the loss had been just as present as her love. It was a moment of completion, wherein paradoxically she'd been able to grasp those feelings and wants once more -trapped within the tears she dreamed of crying. But those left as well.

She wanted to get them back.

But those were gone now.

They were no longer in her.

In a happening, within those uncountable calculations and stimulations within her brain: those most minuscule particle's probability had chosen for her not to have them any more. Somewhere, by that likely chance, they had formed and moved into something most unlike what they had been before. It felt as if, for her, those feelings were gone. But there were still those countable pieces of matter forming her dreams. That which made her feelings; that which was identical with how she described how she felt: they stayed.

If only her dreams had too.


End file.
